


Ruin

by TheEarlyKat



Series: Warden Leverette [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It has to do, dear Warden,” he murmered, dragging his hands up his chest to drape his arms over his shoulders, “ with the fact that where you call it a ruin, I call it a piece of art.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> And now the jumping around between plot points is beginning to show itself.
> 
> There's [art](http://theearlykat.tumblr.com/post/136866899604/lyriumlinesandpointyears-warden-levi-for) of Levy by the amazing BloodMouth

The tent entrance flapped open and Leverette felt only the change in temperature on his face. He leaned forward against the sudden chill, hunched over the map spread out before him the slab of wood Morigan shaped into a tabletop. Several of the rocks Sandal continuously, and proudly, handed to him whenever they returned to Bohdan’s shop for supplies, held the corners down to keep it from rolling in on itself. A frustrated mummer left his lips in a breath that tasted of sulfur and heat rose into his face, coloring his cheeks once more. Leverette resumed staring at the map with furrowed brows, one hand tracing the day’s march with a finger while the other rested against his knee, a thumb digging into the ragged end of his leg to massage away the ache.

It hurt him less with each passing day as blood found new ways to flow and nerves either healed themselves or finally gave up their fight and numbed like the dead flesh around them. What muscle was left was growing stronger and he found himself able to wear the heavy replacement for longer without complaint, but when the nights grew long and the winds colder, the metal froze over and seeped into his skin to cramp his joint and undoing the buckles that held it in place was a relief he could not describe in words.

Leverette leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders to work them loose and ran a hand down his face. It was frustration that found itself burrowing into the old pain, purposefully seeking it out and amplifying it. It brought a tension to his shoulders and a knot in his stomach that even the promise of Leliana’s cooking couldn’t unwind. Their march, as long as it was, was going slower than he’d hoped. Than Alistair hoped, more, he admitted. The man was more enthusiastic to rebuild the Wardens than he was, and for reasons Leverette admitted were more selfless than his own. Alistair had belonged in with Wardens, stated that it was the home he never found with his uncle. The Gray Wardens were to be rebuilt to give him a family again. Leverette just wanted the mantle of responsibility to be lifted, handed over, and the sooner their ranks were grown, the sooner he’d get his wish.

Soon was beginning to become a very relative term. The Brecilian Forest was leagues and leagues behind them, but the heaviness of the woods and the events that had passed still weighted down their steps, as if the blood they’d spilled still sucked at their feet no matter how far from the Dalish camp they went. Leverette had wanted to leave the instant their business was done, afraid what become of him if he spent more time walking the paths he had when he was child, when he still had a family and father and a future. And then he’d found the stones of his house, green with moss where they’d been charred a decade ago, and he couldn’t have left if he’d wanted to.

They’d made it little further after that, and Orzammar was half a country away, and still the burden resting on them, on him, was there, shoving the guilt of his childhood mistakes and the regret of the curse in his veins that made it possible to be warm in the coldest of nights to the back of his mind, when he was alone in his tent while Zevran took his turn at roaming the camp.

A hand fell on his shoulder to break him of this thoughts and Leverette jumped until the fingers smoothed the fabric of his collar with a breathy exhale.

“Dear Warden,” Zevran said, and Leverette shivered when the hand slipped down his back and moved to cup his other arm. The skin on the back of his neck prickled pleasantly when the elf’s words ghosted over his skin as he leaned down to take his other hand, tugging it gently away from his knee to press a kiss against the knuckles. “You will ruin your back the way you sit like this.”

Leverette motioned to his leg with a wave of his free hand, a soft noises escaping him. “Just add it to the list, I suppose.”

Zevran hummed, making the mage’s hand tingle where his lips were still pressed against his hand. He dropped it after a moment in favor of running his hand down his thigh, fingers dancing across the scar and uneven muscle usually typically hidden by wrappings until Leverette squirmed and coughed. “Some ruins are beautiful. I have told you about the ones in Antiva, yes? Where the columns of grand buildings have crumbled and great glass ceilings have fallen in to let the gardens grow like some monstrous jungle.”

“You may have mentioned,” Leverette chuckled. He relaxed further in the chair as Zevran took back both hands to knead at his leg.

“Of course I have,” the elf agreed. “Antivan architecture is without equal, if I do say so myself, and even the ones left to nature are works of art. I have been to Rivain and Fereldan and back, seeing all sorts of people, places, and, as I continue, ruins. They are all unique, none falling in the same patter, none casting the same shadow. There is always this kind of mystery in those old places, where there is no one and nothing to tell you what was once was there.”

Leverette didn’t stir when Zevran finished his speech and roused himself at a chuckle. He cleared his throat and began to sit up until the elf placed a gentle hand on his chest. “What does this have to do with my leg?” He missed the hands on his knee, but the pain from the past day was gone, and the weight of the elf shifting from the floor to his lap was more welcome than just his fingers.

“It has to do, dear Warden,” he murmered, dragging his hands up his chest to drape his arms over his shoulders, “ with the fact that where you call it a ruin, I call it a piece of art.” The elf leaned forward until their noses were nearly touching.

Leverette moved forward first, tilted his head down to press their foreheads together, and he closed his eyes, afraid of what he would see in his lover’s eyes. “My house was a ruin and-and I…I don’t find that beautiful.”

“There are all kinds of beauty, amor,” Zevran said, tracing his jaw with a finger. Leverette caught his wrist. “Sometimes it does not bring that mysterious happiness. Sometimes it brings a sadness for what has been lost. It is unfortunate about your home, but you, yourself, cannot be compared.”

Leverette exhaled and a pressure lifted from his chest. He breathed in deep and nodded, surprising himself with a smile when Zevran tilted his chin up to kiss him.

“Thank you.”

The assassin laughed. “Thank me? Thank me later when it took me too long to get you out of this stuffy tent with its boring maps to persuade Alistair not to make dinner, if you dare.”

“Is that why you’re here? Not to cheer me up?”

“Oh, no, the cheering up is for later.” He winked, and Leverette couldn’t help the laugh. “Much later. With more hands. Assuming we do have Alistair give up the rights to the campfire. Otherwise my hands will be occupied searching for a lovely bush to throw my dinner into.”

The mage kissed him once more before sliding him off his lap with a half-hearted sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”


End file.
